


Friendly Advice

by Ylevihs



Series: How Not to Fall [3]
Category: Fallen Hero Series - Malin Rydén, Fallen Hero: Rebirth (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, implied past sidestep/charge, mentions of puppet/dr. mortum, slight retribution spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-12-27 02:00:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18294572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ylevihs/pseuds/Ylevihs
Summary: Richard makes a questionable decision.





	Friendly Advice

Richard swallowed hard against the lump of terror clogging his throat. He needed to get this done. He could do this.

He could absolutely do this.

No problem.

He.

His hands were shaking, almost enough to drop the phone, but they managed.

The line only rang once before a little click and

“Richard?” hushed and soft. It caught in Richard’s throat. Ah, beans, this was a bad idea.

“…Hey…yeah, it’s me,” Richard ran a hand over his face, willing his mouth to keep moving. The pause must have been longer than he meant it to be because he could hear Ortega moving on the other end of the call. A door ‘snicking’ shut. “Do you have a second?”

“Of course. Is everything okay?” his voice was cautious. The way he asked was the same way a hero might ask a jumper on the ledge if ‘everything was okay, mister?’. Concerned but not wanting to provoke. It was exceptionally rare that Richard would call Ortega out of the blue. The tone of it managed to snap part of Richard into responding.

“ _Yeah_ …yeah, I’m fine. I, uh, I need to talk with you about something. If you’re not busy?” he didn’t mean to make it a question but his voice lilted upwards at the end anyway. There was no way this was going to end well. “It’s not really important. Just…need your advice on something. I don’t. I wouldn’t trust anyone else with it,” the last bit was a little forced, he knew, but he also knew Ortega wouldn’t be able to resist the stroke to his ego.

There was a long pause.

“I’m gonna need you to say that again, but slower and more clearly,” the grin was audible. Richard stayed silent until he heard Ortega chuckle in surrender. “Fine, fine. No problemo, let me finish up here—half an hour max—and I’ll meet you…somewhere?” the hesitation was deliberate, waiting for Richard to offer a secondary location. He bit down hard on his tongue, trying to keep it still. But.

If he was doing this, he was doing this.

“I know you know where I live Ricardo,”

The break was a lot longer this time. Heavier. Ortega weighing whether or not he should deny it; admitting to the knowledge would be admitting to a lot more. 

“I’m sorry,” the apology almost threw him off. Richard had to blink back his surprise. Clear it from his throat.

“I’m not mad,” anymore. He’d been so livid, brimming with searing terror, when he’d found out that he’d gone on. Well. He wouldn’t call it a ‘rampage of destruction’ but the press certainly had. It was luck or fate that kept there from being any casualties that night. The price tag the city put on those fifteen minutes before the Rangers had shown up had been something along the line of seven figures, which suited him just fine. “I’m hurt, but,” and Richard tried to bleed in the right notes of wounded betrayal. And then he shifted gears, sensing from experience that the hit had landed. “It’s not why I’m calling,”

It sounded like genuine pain in Ortega’s voice. Remorse. “You need to know that I only–”

“Half an hour,” Richard cut him off, if they were going to have that conversation, they could have it face to face. A quiet shuffling, then:

“Half an hour and then I’m on my way,”

“Drive safe,” He decided to tack on for good measure. It sounded authentic enough to his ears. Almost sweet.

 

At least it wasn’t his old apartment, Richard tried to self soothe, rubbing his hands over his forearms. That would have been a little too much to handle. He hadn’t allowed himself to start thinking of this place as his, not quite yet. It was much nicer than he’d ever let himself indulge in before and the disconnect made it easier to reconcile the feeling that it wasn’t permanent. It was splurging on fine dining; renting the nicest hotel room money could buy for one night only. It wasn’t meant to last.

Against his best efforts, it didn’t make it easier to see Ortega standing just inside his doorway, shucking his jacket, looking uneasy. Standing in his home. A place that was meant to be safe. Private. A place Ortega was never meant to know about. He smiled at Richard looking around the place with a slight nod. The smile was a little too deep at the edges, eyes crinkling just a tad too narrow. He knew he was in deep shit, just not how deep or what it was going to take to dig himself out of it. His eyes returned to Richard’s gaze and he let the smile drop.

“I thought you were going to run,” Which was a hell of a cold open, even for Ortega. He was rambling before Richard could gather himself enough to respond. “That day in the diner you looked so worn out. It scared me. I’ve seen people like that before and after what you said in there about…I couldn’t convince myself that you were going to go somewhere safe after leaving. I shouldn’t have done it. I was terrified and I’m sorry that it hurt you,”

“Somewhere safe?” as if anywhere was actually safe for him. Pretty damn hard to keep him safe from himself. “Did you think I was homeless or something?”

“No. I, what? No? I wanted to make sure you went home. _Wherever_ that was,”

“Make sure I didn’t vault over a bridge railing?” it was meant to be a joke but Ortega’s eyes started shining, sharply darting away. Too close. He hadn’t meant run. He’d meant. Richard’s fingers felt numb. “That explains my old place. What’s your excuse for knowing where I live now?” He crossed his arms against the trembling in his chest. 

Ortega floundered. His explanation of ‘I’m just a good friend, worried about my buddy, my pal, not up to anything beside being concerned,’ shook like a bobble head in an earthquake.

“When you moved…It wasn’t too long after we. After you,” kissed me, he didn’t say. After they’d decided maybe ‘just friends’ was a better way to be. After neither of them had said that ‘just friends’ wasn’t remotely a better way to be, but they didn’t know how to be anything else. “I saw your old place up for rent and again, I thought ‘now it’s happening, I pushed you too hard and now you were trying to run away’,” the admission made Richard’s stomach sink. “So I poked around. Asked some friends some things,” deliberately vague. For every inch lower his heat went, Richard felt his hackles rising in equal measure. “I like this place better, by the way. The tape on the door frame left something to be desired,” Anger surged. Knowing the address was one thing.

He’d _seen_ his door?

Later, Richard cautioned himself, reigning himself in. Later. You invited him here for a reason. A stupid, stupid reason, but it’s still on you that he’s here. Mad Dog can get back at him later. Make him actually sorry.

“What would you have done if I did try to leave?” What are you going to do when I do leave?

Ortega’s face crumpled like a piece of notebook paper. “ _Mierda_ , you make it sound like I’m your crazy ex–,”

“What should I make it sound like then?” he knew he was raising his voice. He didn’t care. Ortega held up his hands, palms out. Supplication. The simple gesture made something cool in Richard; Ortega didn’t often let himself be seen unsettled and it was doing wonders for keeping Richard’s anger at bay.

“I don’t know. I’m not proud of what I did,” it felt like he was waiting for Richard to accept his apology. “I never meant to make you feel like I don’t trust you,”

“What’s done is done,” as if Richard would give him the satisfaction. If he really was sorry, let him squirm with the guilt. “It’s not what I called you about anyway,”

A grin, slow and sneaky, spread over Ortega’s face.

“Ri-ight,” his shoulders relaxed a bit—when did Ortega tense up so much? It didn’t matter—and he took a step further into the apartment. “You said you need my advice on something you,” Ortega held up his fingers to make air quotes, “don’t trust with anyone else,”

Richard let the sigh out, long and unforced. “You remember when we went out to Hoots?”

“Yes,” the smile was widening.

“And I told you that…Herald and I…,” Richard’s hand made it to the back of his own neck. Rubbing hard. If he sawed hard enough maybe he could take his own head off and not have to deal with this.

“Were going on a date,” Ortega’s face was going to split in two if the smile got any broader.

“It’s not,” Richard bit the bullet. “Okay. O-kay,” There was no easy way to say it. No way to soften the blow to himself. Lessen the buff to Ortega’s ego. “You’re always,” he gestured broadly at Ortega’s entire being, making the man look down at himself in curiosity. “You’ve always been very,” Ricardo waited patiently. Impatiently. The grin was edging into mischievous now that he knew it had something to do with him. Richard didn’t need to read his mind to know how delighted Ortega was at this turn in the conversation. “Don’t be weird about this?” Ortega nodded eagerly, making absolutely no assurances that he wasn’t going to be weird about it. Richard sighed again, hating himself. “I don’t know what to wear,”

Ortega looked like a kid on Christmas morning. “ _Richard_ , did you call me here to be your fairy godmother before the ball?” he was beaming.

“I will kill you,” Mad Dog was going to punch every tooth out of that smile, he swore it. Ortega was snickering to himself. Richard folded. “And for the record: I’m not even sure this is actually a date,”

“Don’t you want it to be one?”

“What I want isn’t the problem here. I don’t know what _Herald_ wants. I don’t know if he thinks he’s having dinner with his trainer or going on a date with me or spending the evening with his hero,” Ortega gave him a funny look before tapping his temple.

“You can’t tell at all?”

Richard kept his face as blank as possible. “No. Not really, not unless I went inside his head. Which I’m not going to do just to find out if he kissed his Sidestep posters,” that joke landed at least, earning him a muffled snort from the other man.

“Alright then. So we don’t know what the evening’s going to be all about for Herald. Do you want it to be a date?”

“Yes,” Richard said through only mostly clenched teeth. He was sure his face could have a lit a fire it was burning so badly. At least Ortega let that slide.

“Good. So we have a good starting point. I’m guessing you called me because you weren’t planning on wearing a pair of jeans and one of your grandpa sweaters,” he looked Richard up and down, seeming set on inspecting him. The urge to fidget welled up through Richard like a tidal wave. Twitchy Richie. He pushed it down. It wasn’t as if Ortega could see through his clothing. “I’ll always suggest a suit, first and foremost,”

“We’re going to dinner, not prom,”

“Then I won’t order you a corsage,” Ortega rolled his eyes, face settling into something like fond annoyance. “Do you even own a suit. Something suit-adjacent?”

“I’ve got a sport coat,” Richard admitted grudgingly. He’d be damned if he could remember where and when he’d gotten one. The brown herringbone thing had appeared one day in his closet like a bad hangover. The slippery memory that ah, beans, Mitzi had bought it—she bought it for Mortum, had never shown him, not yet, meant to tease him with it, to play dress up professor and naughty co-ed—wriggled out of his fingers and up his spine. It shouldn’t have been in his closet at all.

“We can work with that,” Ortega nodded his approval, the ‘close enough’ written clear as day on his face. “Let’s go look at what you’ve got to work with,”

 

“It looks like you styled yourself half off of Mr. Rogers and half off of Bob Ross, if either of them also went to rock concerts in the 80’s,” Ortega rubbed the fabric of a Pink Floyd T-Shirt between his finger and thumb. Richard felt like he was having an out of body experience, watching Ortega rifle through the clothing in his closet. “Not anything red,” some shuffling. “Green?” he glanced over and “Nah,” After a few moments Ortega’s hands found the coat, somewhere near the back. He held up the hanger next to Richard’s face, letting the coat rest on his chest, comparing. Richard felt every tiny movement of Ortega’s eyes on him, as firm and sure as if he’d been using his hands.

“The color’s good. Brown brings out your eyes, Herald won’t be able to resist,” Richard felt the blush in his ears. “So we can pair it with…,” Ortega trailed, turning his attention back the closet, muttering to himself. “Aha, here!” He shoved the other clothing into Richard’s arms, already walking out of the closet. “Put these on and we’ll see where we can go from there,” Ortega nudged the door shut with his foot and left Richard to fumble awkwardly into his own clothes. In his own closet. In his own apartment.

Right around the time Richard finished pulling his sweater over his head it occurred to him that as long as he was in his closet, Ricardo was left unsupervised in his apartment.

That wasn’t good.

That was.

Oh, just exceptionally bad news.

Richard almost fell over trying to tear his pants off. He stumbled loudly back into the door and

“You okay?” Ortega’s muffled laughter met him, not far away. The gentle radio static of his brain was still in Richard’s bedroom at least.

“Fine,” not fine not fine not even remotely. “Just. Uh. Have a seat on the bed,” or something.

“Sure. Hey what’s with the painting?” Not fine.

“It’s a…a dog. I think,” Not fine.

“Okay? Richard is ev—,”

Not.

“Itkeepsthewindowcovered,”

You cannot have a panic attack pants-less in your own closet, Richard Abekket, you will have to kill yourself if you do.

He took in a deep breath. Another. Forcing the mammalian fear back into its cage. Somewhere out in the world, the rest of the universe, he heard Ortega curse softly to himself in Spanish. Richard very slowly pulled his pants on and left the closet.

Ortega was sitting on his bed, which in another life would have made Sidestep swallow his own tongue, elbows on his knees. His attention turned laser quick from the covered window to his friend. He wolf-whistled and Richard was sure he was going to die.

“Shut up,” he felt his hands start fiddling with the buttons of the sport coat, the hem of the blue shirt, anything to keep from focusing on how badly he wanted to sink into the floor.

“You look _good_ ,” which would have been bad enough if Ortega hadn’t followed it up with a teasing smile. “Professor Abekket, off to give little Herald some private tutoring in anatomy? I hear he learns best with a hands on approach,” 

“You little. I swear t–I’m,” Richard almost choked on his own spit. Ortega chuckled, delighted. “Are you prepared for the death you’ve earned?” but he could feel the smile on his own face, unable to force it back.

“Bold talk for a man with no tenure,” Ortega shot back, light and airy. Richard exhaled a little laugh and then bit his lower lip. “Although the pants might be a little light, go with darker jeans. And button the middle button on—no, the top one. Perfect,”

“You…do you think I should do something with?” his hand reached up and very carefully pushed the cloud of hair on his head down, hating every curl and ridge that sprung up between his fingers. Whatever had been going on on Ortega’s face before softened in way Richard couldn’t even begin to name.

“No,” and then brightened. “Jesus, do you remember that time we tried to straighten it?” A little plume of warmth started at the base of Richard’s spine.

“You almost burned a chunk of it off,” he tried to sound annoyed instead of choking on the nostalgia of it. He remembered too many beers and laughter and the bright lights of Tia Ortega’s bathroom and the bite of the counter into the backs of his legs while Ortega focused on not blowing up his mother’s straightener. He remembered Ortega’s free hand on his thigh, his face so close and breath so warm and how touch drunk he’d been. He remembered how his heart had raced for weeks each and every time he thought about it. 

“In my defense we were both pretty drunk,” Ortega stood up off the bed, beckoning Richard closer to straighten the lines of his coat. The proximity more than the words brought the memories back.

“Your mother was furious,” his voice was too soft. They were just friends, now. They’d only ever been friends. Ortega never seemed to notice on his own and Richard had never said anything and that mistake in the hospital had been exactly that. A mistake Richard had made and now needed to bury.

“You looked ridiculous,” Ortega broke away first. The ghost of him lingers in more ways than one. “Leave your hair alone, just make sure you brush it. You don’t want Herald getting his fingers stuck in there,” a pause. “Unless getting him stuck on you is what you’re going for,” he shot Richard a sly wink.

“Get out,”

**Author's Note:**

> *just shrugs into oblivion, never to be seen or heard from again*


End file.
